Starlight City
by danceonthebrink
Summary: And, oh, she was even more dazzling close up, it almost hurt to look at. The glittering lights of NYC shone out of her smile, and it's really no wonder she was a world power. [Bel/fem!Ame.]


_Written for **blackrosegirl666** for the Yuritalia Christmas Exchange 2015_

 **Title:** Starlight City

 **Genre:** Romance/Drama

 **Pairing:** Belarus/fem!America

 **Rating:** T

 **Summary:** Belarus is one of the best spies in the business, before America went and messed with her head. Set during the Cold War.

 **Notes** : So, I strayed a bit from the original prompt, buuuut I think this turned out alright. I might use this set-up for a multi chaptered story in the future, since there was a lot of stuff and plot that I wanted to put in but didn't have time. (That's part of the reason Nat develops her feelings so quickly.)

Happy Holidays~!

* * *

There was no place she wouldn't rather be than here.

 _Here_ being America's eleventh star on the flag, the city of lights and place of your dreams ( _the sky's the limit_ ). Yessiree, that's New York, baby, in all it's over-idolised glory and quintessential have-it-all. Chocker block full of rude natives and taxis that drove faster than the speed of sound and the overwhelming advertisements plastered everywhere and pitching anything. And boy, did she mean _anything_. Consumer society at it's very finest.

It was nothing like the damp, soggy place of her home—the dull atmosphere plaguing most Slavic countries. She had never seen anything like it before, the streets crowded with people who yelled obscenities at any who dared cross them, bright lights that never dimmed and shops that never closed.

However, if someone had asked why Natalya was here when she hated it so much, Natalya would have no choice but to _lie_.

Around these parts, her kind are known as 'Reds', 'commies', 'scum of the earth' (her personal favourite), and a quite a few other not-safe-for-children slurs.

Ideally, Natalya spent her free time reading, cooking, and spending time with family, contrary to popular belief that all members of the USSR do nothing but hatch evil plans to defeat the Capitalists.

… However, she is some what of a contradiction considering she is currently spying on a certain North American personification.

There's a certain art to her trade, and she is the best there is. Natalya has to be quick-witted and adaptable; improvisation is a requirement when one dabbled in dangerous business and she is certainly not afraid to get her hands dirty. Theatre and other performing arts played a part in her smooth tongue that wove a web of lies so complex even a arachnid wouldn't be able to navigate them.

But really, it was all just common sense at the end of the day. Study the target without being overtly obvious, don't get caught. Simple stuff. Things only became convoluted behind the scenes.

But the Soviet Union did not do common sense. They demanded only those of highest intellect, agility and skill. Somebody who could see past a target's saccharine exterior and revealing clothes, someone who could learn the target's habits and weakness before exploiting them in the worst way possible.

 _That_ was why Natalya was hired. Along with her status of a nation which meant she was near invincible and had centuries of experience, she was Russia's most valuable asset. (Just the way things should be.)

Her current target is an interesting, yet highly dangerous one. Nations going undercover in other nations is never a good idea, seeing as there is an ample chance of being recognised and captured. Luckily, Belarus is not a common household name, and just going off of the information she had collected: Americans are not exactly excelling at geography.

The target is 5"6, 147 pounds and Caucasian. Natalya knows that she prefers to go by Amelie Jones, sometimes Adelia Parker or Anna Fitzgerald but always keeping the same "A" pattern, but she does not know why.

(Maybe it's because she was an uncertified A-lister and she knew it, but maybe not.)

But, no, she exclusively went by _Amelie F. Jones_ , and it suited her better than the official, government chosen ten-syllabled title of the United States of America. Pleasant name, innocent face to go with. Your typical girl-next-door, except there's an ocean and five thousand miles between them.

Miss Jones appears to be the simple age of sweet sixteen, rosy cheeked and wide-eyed youth with an undertone of wild rebellion pumping through her veins, the type of reckless abandon that helped her claw her way to the top without so much a chip in her half-moon lightly varnished cherry-tipped manicure.

Despite all of the unpleasant feelings towards the land of the free, home of the brave, Natalya had to admit she could see the appeal. The personification was certainly easy on the eyes, pleasing radiance absent in most Europeans. The label 'cultural melting pot' had never made more sense; Amelie was a thousand colours, a million opinions and secrets in a calico dress and suede boots. The hastily-taken monochrome snapshots in Natalya's file didn't do her justice.

Even if she hadn't been looking, it would be impossible not to notice the woman— no, _girl_ , for that's all she is, a little girl with more power in her little finger than Natalya's entire military base times a bakers dozen. If she were anybody else, she might have already purchased a no-return ticket at the airport and hope to god that nobody smelt a rat out of pure fear, but thankfully (?) Natalya has never exactly been the poster child for mental health.

The platinum blonde idly fiddled with the oddly-shaped salt and pepper shakers, already dreadfully bored from watching Little Miss A over there do absolutely nothing. It was rather infuriating. Surely she must have mountains of paperwork to be signed and an abundance of arbitrary phone calls to make. _She must._ And yet here she was, wasting time at a cramped family establishment with a forgettable name.

Natalya knew all of the story-book facts, the run-of-the-mill details that could be looked up in freshman history textbooks and the forty-seventh page of The New York Times. It was a very odd feeling; knowing someone's weight, height, past, yet not knowing whether they prefer coffee or tea and how many sugars. Does Amelie enjoy sipping tall glasses of iced coffee through a curly straw, whipped cream and shredded chocolate drowning out the bitter flavour of caffeine, is that not the American way? Or does she prefer a simple black tea, tongue-curling scalding heat topped with a sugar cube and antique teaspoon for decoration—

Although that seemed more like the British bastard's thing. From what Natalya knew of United Kingdom-United States relations (every last thing), Amelie had definitely dumped tea in the ocean at some time or another.

So perhaps not.

A quick check of the time told her she had spent the past fifty-four minutes just sitting there without ordering anything. In hindsight, it probably would have been best if she had bought something instead of just sitting in the corner like a creep. It was time to go, she has already stayed too long in the same place.

Outside, the blast of warm wind is refreshing, and she revels in the feeling of something other than the freezing air-conditioned atmosphere of the diner. That place will never see Natalya's face again.

She paces her steps, putting some distance between her and Amelie. There's hardly any time to stop and gawk at the scenery, but she can't help but notice her surroundings. It's what she was trained to do after all, and she can never afford to miss the finer details.

The city has character, it's written in graffiti on the walls and litter on the sidewalk. She sidesteps some shattered glass and scrunches her nose disdainfully at the rat digging through a pile of garbage, gum tangled in its flea bitten fur. Character was never necessarily a good thing.

Soon, she finds herself perched on a lone wooden bridge, steel framework digging into her back uncomfortably. Her only companion are the pigeons picking around her feet for food, and she kicks those away.

Notes are taken with a smooth ballpoint, square-shaped Cyrillic decorating the creamy pages. They are meant to be clandestine, but she doesn't think that any passerby will take notice of the young woman writing top-secret information in a leather bound journal. She blends right in.

There's some background noise; screaming babies and the like, but Natalya pays it no mind. She needs to get this down while it's still fresh in memory, her thoughts tend to blur together when time passes. Possibly some form of nation dementia, she'd never had that problem when she was younger.

She's so absorbed that she doesn't notice the person marching their way over to her, peculiar looking shoes growing closer with each step. In fact, she would have never even registered them had they not yelled out a greeting right in front of her.

Snapping to attention, Natalya is swept away by the bombshell blonde standing cowboy-style in front of her, feet spread wide apart. She half expects the girl to draw twin revolvers and blow her away.

And, oh, she was even more dazzling close up, it almost hurt to look at. The glittering lights of NYC shone out of her smile, and it's really no wonder she was a world power.

(That smile could power her entire country.)

"I'm Amelie, Amelie F. Jones." When she spoke, her smooth accent dripped languidly through the air, sticking to Natalya and trickling through her ears like honey. Pinched constants and drawn out vowels should _not_ sound that delicious.

But fuck, she'd been caught. What cruel torture methods was this angelic creature planning for her? Forget the guns; Natalya could already picture her with a leather plaid whip in hand, poised and ready to bite into her pale skin. Natalya's back already ached dully at the thought of being marred with third degree lacerations, possibly permanent scars. _Fuck._

She managed a choked, "what?" Trying to maintain an aura of intimidation and failing miserably. Clearing her throat, she corrected herself with a scowl and a haughty flip of hair. "I mean, what is it you are wanting? Can't you see I am very busy, Miss Jones?"

"Well," the young woman leaned closer, and Natalya could smell the bitter tang of cocoa beans on her breath. Oh, so she was a coffee person. "Just between you and me, I prefer Lee."

Well, wasn't that droll. The one name Natalya had not known about, that was achingly personal and friendly.

As it was only polite to introduce yourself to someone you had just met, Natalya saw it fitting to do the same. "I'm Bel—" she pauses, that dreaded "A" dangling on the tip of her tongue. Drat, that would be right. The one time she messes up and it's on her most important mission yet.

"Bel? That's a pretty cute name, don't mind my sayin'." Thank the lord for idiots, and bizarre Western names. Never mind her ID that advertised her as someone completely different.

Natalya shows off a closed-lip smile, snapping her folder shut, away from prying cobalt eyes. "So? What is it you are seeming to be wanting?"

"Oh yeah!" She snaps her fingers. "We~ll, I had a whole excuse prepared but I've forgotten, so I just wanted to say, isn't it beautiful today? I mean, would ya look at that sky!"

Natalya hums a half-hearted agreement, her whole body on edge, prickling with adrenaline and fear. She holds her folder tightly to her chest, prepared to take off at any moment.

"You're not looking~" Amelie sing-songed. Natalya found her head being tipped back, forcibly held towards the heavens. She yanks the prying hands off her neck.

"Hey! Who gave you permission to touch?" The girl laughs, throwing back effortlessly wavy golden California hair, untouched by curlers or Nu-Nu crème press. It's a vast contrast to her own dead straight pale locks. They're both blonde, but Amelie is brighter and better.

"Ya know, my friend Frankie's having her birthday bash. You seem pretty chill, wanna be my date?" Natalya curses her heart for skipping a beat, willing it back to it's usual mundane rhythm behind her white blouse.

"Is this a common occurrence, you inviting strangers to parties with you?"

"Haha! C'mon my good friends Mary Jane and Lois Lane will be there to keep things hunky-dory." Amelie winks cheekily, pressing a slender finger to her mouth. "But shh, don't tell. It's the real deal bonafide kind, but don't go spreading word, okay?"

Natalya has no idea what the girl is on about—did Amelie honestly think that she knew her friends? Was it code? "I have better things to do than waste time at some teenager party, thank you. I'm afraid I must leave now."

And she's off, putting her years of running after her big brother to use as she practically sprints away. Her leg muscles are as hardened as her stony expression.

"He-ey! Where you going? We'll have a blast!"

Her pace quickens, black pumps clicking against the sidewalk and echoing dully. She can't run in heels, and she isn't about to leave her favourite pair behind—vanity strikes again. Yet her steps do not falter and her feet do not fail her. If there's one person she can trust, it's herself.

It's a cowardly move, but she can't stay there any longer. She'd never found herself so close to a target when she wasn't snapping their neck or blowing their brains out, and it was risky and unsafe.

She hears footsteps nearing and wills herself faster.

"Hey. _Hey,_ I'm talking to you!"

"And I am not listening."

"Well _listen_." Amelie tugs her grey blazer, and Natalya could have easily roundhouse kicked her into next week, but this woman was more powerful than she so she just held her ground.

"There is a _party_. I'm inviting you, angel lips. You have to come otherwise it's rude!" She whined, fiddling with her star clip. It was a garish plastic accessory probably bought half-price in the children's section, but it looks oddly endearing on her.

"Me?" Natalya's tone is incredulous. " _I'm_ being rude? Says the one who finds it pleasing to interrupt my peaceful afternoon with her loud voice and brutish actions."

Amelie shrugs. "Yeah, ha ha. So, want to come?"

"No!" She all but screams, stomping on Amelie's shoe. "I most certainly do not!"

* * *

Somehow, through what was karma or just pure bad luck, Natalya finds herself accompanying the USA to a house party.

The blonde somehow ma angers to hails the first of the million traffic light yellow taxis, only souring Natalya's mood. At least thirty passed her by every time she tried to catch one. What did Amelie have that she did not?

She shouts an address at the pudgy man in the front that Natalya does not catch. It has already occurred to her that she may have been discovered, and this car was going to drive her to government station where she will be interrogated and injured, but if half of the database on Amelie "call me Lee" Jones was correct, then she would be shot the moment she showed any sign of trying to escape.

Of course, that raises the question of why she hadn't been attacked when she attempted to run away the first time, but perhaps Amelie already knew that she would comply.

"Woo-hoo!" Said blonde is perched on her knees, clinging to the window sill as she dangles out the taxi window dangerously.

Natalya watches on with disinterest. Her hastily taken English lessons never taught her how to say 'Moronic American get back in here before you lose your head', so she just watches quietly, half-hoping the black tarmac would find itself with a splattered American decorating it in a couple of minutes. She wouldn't attempt to shove the girl out, but that didn't mean that she didn't silently cheer her on when she stuck her head out even further.

The seatbelt had long been abandoned, and Natalya realises with little shame that she can see Amelie's revealing pink lingerie. They're pretty cute, adorned with little flowers and something in loopy cursive that she doesn't even bother trying to figure out.

Then Amelie pulls herself back in, hair windswept and pupils blown wide with adrenaline. Her static gaze flickers over to Natalya, who catches on that they're nearly there.

To her immense surprise, they really _do_ pull up to a social venue. She's almost blinded by the sheer luminosity of the place, the flashing strobe lights and bright fluorescent neons already giving her a headache. It's glaring sign presents the abode as the 'Cool Cat'. Charming. She can already smell the heavy odour of sex and drugs.

* * *

The party is just like Amelie Jones; loud and untamed. Natalya expected nothing less than the absurd pantomime of dancing, sweaty bodies grinding against each other like tectonic plates, rubbing and shaking the earth with impossible force. It definitely sounds like an earthquake in here.

"Hoo-boy," Amelie fans herself dramatically, kicking her kitty pumps against the plastic bar. "Look at _him._ I want to eat him up."

Natalya nods in agreement, not even bothering to turn and look. Amelie must have caught the aforementioned man's eyes, for she blew two happy kisses like a little kid, then span around and beckoning the bartender closer.

She orders several different drinks, all harbouring childish and long names and ignoring Natalya's, "Aren't you too young to drink?"

When the beverages arrive, Amelie orders them ROYGBIV style, a rainbow of elixirs and liquor. "What's your poison? I've got martinis, cocktails, hard stuff, soda, everything you need. Oh, you can't have the Cola though. That's mine." She chugs back the bottle of Coca-Cola, bow-shaped lips wrapping around the glass tip in a perfect o formation as the sugary pop spills down her throat, and Natalya wonders if she knows what she's doing to her.

She silently selects a purple concoction that looks relatively not-deadly, letting the alcohol burn her throat and warm her face. It tastes sweet yet churns her insides uncomfortably, which may or may not be a metaphor for something else.

In the time it takes her to finish the refreshment (which can only be thirty minutes, give or take a few) Amelie manages to consume all of the prismatic ethanols laid out on the sticky plastic table cover. That's at least two litres down the hatch, all bubbling effervescent liquid in one tiny body.

"B'l," she garbles, fumbling with her glass. "My chickerieni."

"If you throw up on me, I will have your head on a silver platter." Natalya warns, subtly leaning away.

"Imma… Mm, imma dance now. C'mon, le's dance."

"We're not even into the double digits of evening, you know. Didn't your mother ever teach you how to hold your alcohol?" Then Natalya remembers that if this girl was raised by _England_ of all people, there's not really much hope for her in regards to holding booze. Figures.

Amelie just laughs, then tries to stand. _Tries_ to stand. She manages to hoist herself up, but she's teeter-tottering on her heels like a child on a seesaw. Natalya rolls her eyes, pulls out one hundred US dollars from her bag, and places it next to the empty cups. That should cover it.

"Here, let's get you out of here." She offers Amelie an outstretched arm, quite peeved off with the girl. Who was she, to invite Natalya out like this, then go and get herself completely trashed before she could even _begin_ to have fun. Maybe this was her punishment from higher powers for hanging out with a target.

Still, she'd see to it that Amelie made her way home safely. Everyone around here seemed to know who she was, so Natalya could just shove her in the back to a taxi and call it a day. It's difficult enough trying to manoeuvre her way through the masses, especially with an inebriated teenager. As if Amelie wasn't hard enough to deal with _sober_.

Natalya finally manages to pry the back doors open, breathing in the heavy scent of rain. Well, that was unexpected. She stares listlessly at the landscape enveloped in precipitation. Next to her, Amelie shrieks in delight, abandoning her expensive purse to run out into the downpour.

The ebullient blonde is dancing like she said she would, spinning and twirling through unexpected summer rainfall like it's the most natural thing in the world. She looks like she belongs there, at least.

The rain is pitter-pattering onto both of their clothes, darkening them and sticking to their bodies like glue. Jesus, did Amelie really have to choose today of all days to wear white, how is Natalya supposed to control herself with that girl looking like that?

She tips her head back and fans herself, letting stray droplets slide down her face. Sticky sweat clings to the back of her neck, mixing in with the sweet dampness of the rain and Amelie starts to sing. Slurred words mixed in with a off-beat clapping. It sounds like jazz, maybe pop or rock but you could never really tell without instrumental backup.

The drunk stumbles her way. "Bel! Bel, my, sweet pea, buttercup, chrome-plated champ." Amelie's smile sets off an eudaemonic feeling. Natalya's insides buzz with something that could be butterflies, but they're so violent they may as well be wasps. "Dance with meeee. Please."

"The dancing is done, Amie." Ever the practical, boring woman. Why is Amelie wasting time with her. "In fact, it was done the moment you downed your first drink."

"Them's fighting words, honey bunch. The dancing's never done around these parts."

"Ah, I should have know." Natalya lets herself be dragged out into the downpour, as if she wasn't drenched already. She feels warm under all the saturation, humidity making a name for itself in the lightness of her hair and the perspiration on her brow. She watches her counterpart smile coyly, an odd little dimple that she'd never noticed (they'd never been so close) on the corner of her mouth.

She has never wanted to kiss someone so bad.

It's normal here, Natalya knows. Two people of the same gender lusting after one another. There are guys with long hair and earrings, girls with short hair pressing other girls against brick walls and snogging them silly.

But still, Amelie F(ucking) Jones was out of this world, on a whole other planet, and she didn't need to be on drugs to know that—

(she's all starry skies, constellations of freckles with a little bit of rain dampening hair that dances like sunshine on meadows and open roads and freedom, and skin tinged with the lightest bronze, the only evidence of days with a darker, browner-than-bark tan.)

while Natalya Arlovskaya is painfully unworthy—

(she's the complete opposite, yin yang and she's Yin, she's bad weather, the storm after the calm, she's dark alleyways where empty people do unspeakable things, there's a reason hurricanes were named after people and she's all of them.)

It's been seven days of America. Seven days; a whole week of smoggy Manhattan air, foreigners with smooth-as-honey accents and only one that could make her melt, poodle skirts and kitten heels, electric blue ey-skies.

Seven days to let the idealistic dream of freedom and liberty swallow her whole, riding on the high that was the new world. And new world it was, a completely different community of expression and crowded parties with nowhere to go but in and blondes who got into your head and messed around with all the inner workings and important bits and bobs.

That must've been why Natalya thought it would be a good idea to grab American by the taffeta accoutre and press their lips together like the world was ending.

It was sort of unbelievable, a real shocker as Amelia would say, when she found herself being kissed right back. Truly astounding. Out of the hundreds and thousands of people of all shapes and sizes, colours and ethnicities, Amelie was making out with her. Her, Natalya Arlovskaya, cold-hearted, apathetic Natalya, youngest and least accomplished child of three; Natalya. Also know as the Byelorussia Soviet Socialist Republic, Natasha Braginsky, Biealaruś, Natasha, _Bel_.

It was quite ground-breaking.

Kissing the United States of America felt like falling, light-headed dizziness and breathless gasps as the earth rushed up around you, feeling the incredible, ineffable power of gravity crushing and exhilarating at the same time, the induced stupor of euphoric freedom and utter carefreeness.

Kissing the United States of America was like nothing she'd ever felt before; toes curling in clammy shoes with fingers threading in amber waves of grain, the heat of colliding lips and wandering tongues tasting and exploring new land brushed with the dewy rain, water mingling with the piquancy of Amelie. It felt similar to the start of a new era, the refreshing interlude between tossing away the old and in with the newer, finer, _better_. The epoch of Natalya and Amelie.

At least America finally felt like home.

* * *

Amelie (am-ell-ee). Meaning industrious; hardworking. I don't like using the name Amelia—that was my ex's name, lmao.


End file.
